


Bizop

by thegrendel



Category: Original Work
Genre: Anal Sex, Despair, F/M, Loneliness, Scheming, get rich quick, rent - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-09-29
Updated: 2018-09-29
Packaged: 2019-07-20 08:14:52
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,180
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16133276
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thegrendel/pseuds/thegrendel
Summary: Sleep with your landlady? Probably not a good idea. But when the get rich quick schemes fail and you can't make the rent, what's a fellow to do?





	Bizop


       Make big bucks off lonely women! Our system earns you
       thousands each month by DOING WHAT COMES NATURALLY.
       Write for details. Bizop, Inc., P.O. Box 87343.
    

It sounded good. Damn good. The brochure Jerry got in the mail was  
full of testimonials. The only problem was the money. The program cost  
$350. That was more than he made in a month, even before deductions.

He had been in town only a year. Turning twenty just as the mad and  
glorious sixties were ending, he had hopped a westward-bound Greyhound  
and somehow ended up in LA.

Six months later he had scraped together enough. He mailed out a money  
order for $350. This had damn well better be worth it. Here he was,  
broke, working at a minimum wage job, inexperienced sexually, and having  
the gall to think he could make money off women.

An envelope arrived in the mail. The return address read Bizop, Inc.  
Inside were a couple of paragraphs on a single mimeographed sheet.

 _That_ was the entire program. He was to place the following  
classified ad in the personals section of any newspaper of his choice,  
and hope for the best.
    
    
       Never experienced the ULTIMATE? It's not too late.
       Specialist in bringing sensual release to older women.
       If you are over 50 and lonely, write for details.
       (Contact info here.)
    

This had better work. He didn't even know how he'd manage next month's  
rent if no money came in. Not to mention that the cupboard was bare.

He waited. No inquiries from needy women came in the mail. What did come  
in the mail was an eviction threat from his landlady. He'd had to ask  
his boss for an advance in order to buy food.

He woke up one morning knowing that it was all a pile of crap. His hopes  
and dreams, his whole life -- all of it was crap. He had sent away several  
hundred dollars to a swindler, only to learn about a scheme to swindle  
others. A crock of shit.

He was getting ready to leave for work when there was a knock on the door.  
Oh shit! This couldn't be good news. It wasn't. It was Mrs. Morpheus, the  
landlady. She was a graying widow in her late forties who was usually  
pleasant enough to deal with, except when it came to matters of money.  
Money, as in overdue rent.

"Sorry, but I can't talk now. I'll be late for work -- "

"You might as well sit down, young man. A job won't do you much good if  
you're not paying the rent. I'm sorry, but matters have gotten to the  
point that . . . "

"But, I can't -- "

"You can't pay. You don't have the money. You had a little bad luck  
and you need more time. How many times have I heard that song from  
my renters? Rentals are what I live on. They're what puts food on my  
table. If I extended charity to everyone falling behind on his rent,  
I'd soon be out on the street myself."

"Please, give me a break, lady."

"You're a nice boy, Jerry, but I'm sorry, I just can't extend you any  
more credit. If you can't come up with the back rent by tomorrow morning,  
we'll have to start thinking about other alternatives."

At work his boss absolutely refused to give him another advance on his  
pay. "You're a good worker, Jerry, but you've pulled this stunt once  
too often. You just can't bring your personal problems to your place of  
employment. Now, how far along are you with that Metcalfe file?"

Jerry had trouble falling asleep that night. He finally drifted off in  
the early morning hours.

And awoke choking. Smoke! The building was burning!

Quick! What's the quickest way out? Jump through the window, with the  
possibility of being sliced up and breaking his bones? Wait! Where's  
the smoke coming from? Through the floorboards. The fire is downstairs!

Check the hallway. He touched a fingertip to the door. No heat.  
Cautiously, he opened it a crack. No heat and not much smoke.

He staggered into the hall and there was a body lying there. No, it was  
moving. Coughing. Still alive! It was Mrs. Morpheus. Probably about to  
knock on his door with an eviction notice when the fire intervened.

She didn't appear to be seriously injured. Jerry took her hand and  
helped her up. "Can you walk? We've got to get up to the roof. Downstairs  
everything's on fire."

At the end of the hall there was a narrow flight of stairs leading  
upward. In all his months of living in the building, Jerry had never  
climbed all the way up to the roof, three stories higher. "A hell of  
a time to go exploring," he muttered as his landlady preceded him up,  
stumbling and clutching the splintery wooden banister. He supported  
her from behind to keep her from falling, and near the top she lurched  
backward against him and they both collapsed in a heap on the steps. She  
grabbed him in a clumsy embrace and began weeping uncontrollably, and  
his hands inadvertently slid down to her waist and below. What a nice  
round ass she had, a distant part of his mind noted.

"The roof -- we've got to get up there!" Jerry shouted at her. The door  
at the top landing was locked, and Mrs. Morpheus fumbled in her handbag  
for the key.

"Got to warn the rest of my tenants!" she wailed.

Jerry peered over the parapet down at the ground. "No need. Looks like  
everybody got out in good time. Seems like they're all having a party  
down there. They're passing around bottles of beer and what -- dancing?"

"Worthless bums, every one of them." Mrs. Morpheus shook her head  
in disgust.

There were sirens in the distance.

 

"I don't know how to thank you, Jerry."

"Well, Mrs. Morpheus -- "

"Just call me Katy. It's my name." She smiled warmly. She was wearing a  
form-fitting, low-cut dress and didn't look at all like the dowdy landlady  
he had known for so long. "Would you like any dessert?" she asked.

"No, uh, Katy. That pot roast did it for me." He pushed his chair  
back and suppressed a belch. "You really know how to treat a man."

"I know how to treat a _special_ man." Her eyes twinkled.  
"My husband used to say that a man who could function in a crisis was  
worth his weight in gold. And by the way, it still feels warm where your  
hand touched me down there . . . "

He blushed. "Uh, that wasn't intentional, Mrs. . . . Katy. I was just  
trying to help -- "

"Please don't apologize, Jerry. What happened during the fire forged a  
bond between us and, well, it's been so difficult for me since Herbert  
died . . . " She leaned over him and kissed him on the forehead. He  
blushed again.

"Jerry, it's not just loneliness speaking. I've had certain feelings for  
you since you moved into my building. Why do you think I carried you so  
long when you were so far behind on the rent?"

Her face glowed. He had seen that look before -- on women besmitten or  
hopelessly in love. In love with someone else . . . it had never been  
on his account before. Did he really want to go further with this? Well,  
why not? Katy, and fortune too, it appeared, had smiled on him.

 

She was snoring softly. The alarm clock on the nightstand read 3:40.

Jerry congratulated himself. He had done just fine, he reckoned. He'd  
put it into her twice tonight, and he'd be ready for another go in the  
morning if she was in the mood. Quite a handful, she was. Lustier than  
a chubby middle-aged dame had any right to be.

Whew! The second time she had wanted to be on top. He'd figured he owed  
it to her after what had happened earlier. They had been in such a rush  
to have at each other that he had just pulled her skirt down, bent her  
forward over the arm of the sofa, and taken her, doggy style. No fancy  
stuff or preliminaries, just insert and pump. Fortunately, she'd already  
been wet. Really hot for him, she must have been.

On top, yeah. She had squatted down over his loins and and straddled  
him. Man, the look on her face as she bounced up and down on him! A  
hot potato for an old lady. Then she had leaned forward, and forward,  
and down, and lay down flat on him. All 200 pounds of her -- soft and  
yielding and burning -- and she had smothered him with her longing as  
her pussy kept squeezing and . . .

He was getting horny again thinking about it. He lay curled behind  
her, spoon position, with his cock nestled between her plump buttocks  
and rising. He wondered if . . . if she'd let him do her in the back  
passage. Yeah, that was the ticket. Kinky sex was a dead certain way to  
bind a woman to you, or so he'd heard. It would be something special  
that just the two of you share. But how to ask her? "Katy, darling,  
I want to fuck you in the ass." Yeah, that would go over big.

It turned out that he didn't have to ask. As dawn's early light leaked in  
between the blinds of the bedroom window, Katy darling took his cock into  
her mouth until he was rock-hard and panting. She asked him in return  
to lick her clit a little, and he was glad to oblige. Then she got a  
little jar of Vaseline out of the bottom drawer in the nightstand and  
greased him up with it. She bent forward and reached back to spread her  
hind cheeks. "Yes," she said. "I _know_ what you want. I want  
it, too."

 

"Quit your job," she said.

They were having breakfast, and Jerry almost choked on a forkful of  
hash browns.

"What?"

"A man of your abilities," she smiled and shook her head, "shouldn't be  
wasting his time filing papers. I have something better in mind for you."

Katy wanted him to supervise the cleanup and repair job on the  
fire-damaged building. Insurance would cover most of the costs, and as  
for the rest, well, the money was available. And following that, Jerry  
would be taking over as building manager. "And if you show any talents  
at that, well, it happens I own a few more properties and . . . "

It was the fulfillment of his dreams -- a steady income, free room and  
board, and as a fringe benefit, a passionate lover. And that was only  
the beginning.

 

Five years later Jerry owned two small apartment houses outright and  
a piece of an office complex on the Miracle Mile. His net worth was in  
the neighborhood of a half million.

He had long since married Katy, over the opposition of family and friends,  
and still more or less loved her, though he despised her two grown sons.  
Sure, his wife was old enough to be his mother, but so what? The sex was  
pretty good and he didn't have to put up with the crap that a spoiled,  
whining woman his own age would have subjected him to. That Katy was  
beyond child-bearing age just meant he didn't have to worry about getting  
her pregnant.

Of course, it didn't last. He got involved in a deal which would have  
brought in fifty million if it had worked out. It didn't, and instead  
Jerry wound up in bankruptcy court. Katy could have bailed him out with  
her personal money, but as it happened she had caught him having an affair  
with his secretary and had served him with divorce papers. Everything  
had turned to shit overnight.

Jerry was nothing, if not resilient. His last employer took him back,  
and with a fifty-cent an hour raise, too. "In spite of your personal  
problems, you were the best damn clerk-typist I ever had," he told Jerry.

Slowly, Jerry pulled himself back up. He paid off some of his old debts,  
and even managed to put away a little money. He married another widow,  
not a wealthy one this time, but an even-tempered and forgiving woman. He  
settled down to a safe, predictable, and unexciting life and laid aside  
his youthful dreams and ambitions.

Nowadays Jerry dotes on his two grandchildren and goes on Sunday drives  
with his wife. He's the steady and reliable gray-haired old fellow  
everyone in the neighborhood turns to when they have a problem. Little  
do they know . . .

. . . that Jerry is once again wealthy. He made his fortune on the  
Internet like so many others. None of that dot-com foolishness for him,  
though. Jerry found a steady and reliable business that brings him and  
his loving family a steady and reliable income.

Jerry is a spammer. In his basement, a bank of servers sends out 200 million  
e-mails a day making enticing promises.
    
    
       Make big bucks off lonely women! Our system earns you
       thousands each month by DOING WHAT COMES NATURALLY.
       For details, e-mail bigbucks@bizop.com.
    


End file.
